


Have Mercie!

by ohmyfae



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, Smut, Sort of cafe adjacent AU, Sugar Daddy AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:34:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25117717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyfae/pseuds/ohmyfae
Summary: “Ah,” says Dimitri, as Ashe suppresses a scream threatening to bubble up his throat. “I did think you looked familiar.”“What the fuck, Dimitri,” says his husband, Felix Hugo Fraldarius, five-time international figure skating champion and the man whose Teen Skating poster was taped up on Ashe’s wall for most of his life. “Don’t be a creep.”Ashe tries to breathe. Dimitri smiles at him apologetically. Felix narrows his eyes. Ashe has his second championship free skate memorized. His mom taped it on VHS.VHS.Ashe still has the tape.***A modern sugar daddy AU where Ashe Ubert is in need of some cash, and Dimitri Blaiddyd and Felix Fraldarius are in need of some company. It’s a perfect arrangement, if Ashe can get over the fact that he is now dating the subject of his bisexual awakening.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 14
Kudos: 152





	Have Mercie!

Snow falls over Fhirdiad, blanketing the pristine lawns of the suburbs and turning the streets of the upper city into a mass of grey, lumpy sludge that piles in the gutters and slides over the slick sidewalks. Ashe Ubert trudges through it all in snow boots too large for his feet, and his beat-up converse knockoffs slide and squeak over the old rubber as he weaves around tourists crowding the sidewalks. 

The Have Mercie! cafe and occult supply center isn’t exactly what Ashe imagined when he pictured himself moving to the city for college, but it’s a steady job and Mercedes, the only co-owner who doesn’t hole herself away in the back room all day like a vampire, is pretty good about working around his class schedule. She’s at the hostess counter when Ashe comes in, her long, honey-blonde hair tied back with a ribbon. She’s wearing one of her many elaborate silk hats, complete with a veil set with little glass beads that twinkle in the light of a dozen salt lamps.

“Ashe,” she says, and Ashe starts a little, dislodging his shoe in the act of taking off his boots. She always makes him feel like he’s up before a priestess or something, like he’s been caught stealing from the vestibule and she’s not angry, just _disappointed._ “You’ve been cutting it close the past few days. Is everything alright?”

“What? Yeah,” Ashe says. “Sure. It’s great. Just, you know. Car’s still out of order, so.”

Which isn’t a lie. The car probably _is_ out of order, since it was repossessed two months ago and scrapped for parts. Ashe shoves on his shoe, which is starting to peel away from the sole _again,_ and flashes Mercie a smile.

“It’s fine,” he says. “Promise. I won’t be late.”

“Then I’ll need you to take tables six, five, and eight,” Mercie says. “I’m running a goddess intervention seminar in thirty minutes, and Annette’s home sick.”

“Right,” Ashe says. “On it.”

He’s used to this. When shit goes sideways at his apartment, with unused pipes bursting and the radiator wheezing out its last breath, when his brother and sister call to say that the water’s been turned off _again_ and his paycheck wasn’t enough, this time, he can at least fall back on this. He’s been bussing tables since he was a kid, when his parents were too busy trying to keep the restaurant afloat to pay for daycare, and he can take orders in his sleep. He throws on his apron, washes his hands, and puts on his best customer service smile for a crowd of assholes who definitely aren’t tipping, a girl who hides behind her book and whispers her order, and a tall, quiet guy in his thirties who looks like he just stepped out of a heavy metal album and stumbled right into Frank’s House of Sweaters. 

The tall guy smiles back at him when Ashe approaches, gentle and unguarded, and Ashe tries not to stare at the black eyepatch tied around his long blonde hair.

“Coffee, please,” the man says. “The, ah. The one with caramel?”

“Yes sir,” Ashe says. He glances at the seat across from the guy, which is pushed out a little by his long legs, and the man shrugs.

“It seems as though I’m dining alone today,” he says. “My coffee date had to reschedule.”

“Sorry to hear that, sir,” Ashe says.

“Please.” The man winces slightly. “Don’t call me sir. It’s Dimitri.”

“Yes, sir,” Ashe says, automatically. They both wince. “I mean. Dimitri. I’ll go get your coffee. Right. So.” He eases back on one foot, the sole of his shoe skids out from under his heel, and he goes stumbling back a step. Dimitri glances down at his shoes, and Ashe quickly rights himself before fleeing for the back.

He fucks up the coffee enough for the steamer to start screaming and caramel drizzle to land on the counter, but when he sets it down in front of Dimitri, he gives Ashe such a grateful look that Ashe’s cheeks flush and his mouth goes dry. When Dimitri leans to take the cup, his chest flexes against the knitted fabric of the sweater, and Ashe takes a step back.

“Thank you,” Dimitri says.

“Good... thanks for the... you, too, sir,” Ashe says, jumbling a lifetime of rote pleasantries into one panicked, deeply bisexual mess. Dimitri tilts his head slightly. “Anything else?” His voice rises an octave.

“Not particularly,” Dimitri says.

“Great.” Ashe actually _salutes_ with two fingers. “Enjoy the thing. Your drink. Sir.”

“Dimitri.”

“Yes!”

“Oh, dear,” Mercie whispers, when she finds Ashe hiding in the back a minute later, trying not to scream into his hands. “Your aura is terribly clouded, Ashe. Would you like me to send a prayer to the goddess for you this afternoon?”

“Sure,” Ashe croaks. “Can’t hurt.”

He doesn’t see Dimitri go. He sneaks out later to bus his table, red-faced and grimacing, and lifts the cup to pull out the tip he left behind. At least he decided to tip at all, after that display.

Ashe stops. The bussing tray slides onto the table. Five hundred-dollar bills crinkle in his hand, and Ashe takes a deep breath, then another, before he abandons the tray completely and rushes over to the register.

They’re real. Dimitri just tipped five hundred dollars for an eight dollar drink, after Ashe nearly word-vomited all over him in a fit of sweater-induced pique. He might actually be able to make rent on time, this month. Or... he sighs. Or he can pay the water bill at home, first, so his siblings don’t have to heat gallon jugs on the stove all winter.

His heart hammers all the way home, so fast and fierce that he doesn’t even care that the wind cuts through his thin jacket and his fingers go numb. He flings himself into his apartment, which is almost _colder_ than it is outside, and drags a blanket from the nest that makes up his “couch” so he can boot up his notebook computer. He’s technically stealing the next door neighbor’s internet, so it takes a while, but the five hundred dollars in his pocket seems to burn through him, warming him, sending his breath puffing into the air around his head. 

He’d resisted it for a while. A classmate in his business class brought it up as a half-hearted project last month, and Ashe has been idly coming back to it every time an overdue bill takes out his power or turns off the heat. Now, he clicks over to the tab—Free-Diad, the so-called dating service that really just exists for young, broke guys to find an older man who wants to pay for them to basically exist.

“It doesn’t have to be a whole thing,” Ashe reminds himself, as he rushes through his profile setup. He finds a picture of himself that doesn’t look like he just woke up for an eight am class, fudges his answers on the compatibility test, and drums his fingers on his knees as the website tries to match him up with a suitably desperate rich guy.

The screen takes two minutes to load. Ashe grabs a granola bar from the counter and practically inhales it. This is fine. He’s fine. He can back out whenever. 

The first match finally loads, but there isn’t a picture. It’s just a grey square, and Ashe raises his brows as he reads, _Married couple seeks personal assistant._ Ashe huffs. It’s all code on this site, apparently, since technically this _isn’t_ exactly on the level. Not like Ashe hasn’t toed the line before, anyways. _Requests initial meeting in public—_ Well, obviously. _Salary upwards of_

Ashe closes the notebook. He stands up. He goes to the window.

“Fuck,” he says, and scrambles back to the makeshift couch. He waits for the screen to load again, types out a basic, generic greeting, slams the enter key, and stares at the screen, breathing steam into the cold afternoon air.

“Right,” he says. “No going back now.”

***

“I’m like, ninety percent sure at least one of these guys isn’t an axe murderer,” Ashe says two days later, as Annette shoves a bright pink can of mace in his messenger bag. He’s wearing his nicest shirt, which he didn’t so much launder as spray with fabric softener and shove in the freezer overnight, and his _sex jeans,_ i.e. regular jeans that are officially a little too tight for his thighs. Which is fine—and hey, maybe his not-an-axe-murderer is _into_ the desperate scrublord look. Maybe that’s the point. 

“Text me before and after, okay?” Annette whips out a knife that looks more ceremonial than practical, inlaid with glass rubies, and tucks it away with the mace.

“You know, they’ll probably think _I’m_ the axe murderer now,” Ashe says.

Annette tries to look stern, which is kind of like watching a Pomeranian face down a mastiff. “They’ll get over it. Now sit still so I can make you cute.”

Ashe sighs.

He’s been texting one of the guys off and on through the dating site for the past two days. He doesn’t _seem_ that bad, for a guy who wants to dump money on some broke nineteen-year-old with grey hair and shoes he had to staple back together in the back room of Have Mercie! yesterday. He’s polite. Unassuming. But then, most creeps probably are at first, so maybe Annette has a point.

Or her knife does, anyways.

She still does Ashe’s makeup—just a few touches, enough to line his eyes and make his lips look a little less chapped—and fusses with his hair a bit before she arranges a safeword and downloads an emergency app on his phone. It’s a little excessive, yeah, but it’s touching to know someone cares enough to do all this, and Ashe pulls her into a one-armed hug before he leaves.

“I’ll be okay,” he says. “Promise.”

“Yeah, you’d better,” she tells him. “Go, uh, go seduce some hot dads, Ashe.”

“Wrong dating service,” Ashe says, “but that’s the spirit.”

He takes a bus to their meeting place, which is a high-end restaurant in the business district near Old Town, where Ashe isn’t even qualified to bus tables, let alone sit at one. It’s the kind of place his parents would have scoffed at, all pomp and no heart, with big velvet ropes at the entrance warning anyone without a trust fund to _turn back, peasant._ Ashe twists his fingers together as he approaches the host, and tries not to run a hand over his hair.

“Uh. I’m here for, uh. I’m with, Alexandre?” His voice peters off halfway, and the host gives him a long, deeply judgmental stare. Ashe is suddenly very aware that his sex jeans are now soaked three inches in melted snow, and his messenger bag is pretty much held together by duct tape and prayer.

“Yes,” the host says, after a minute. “This way.”

The restaurant is dimly lit, with beautiful wooden tables and leather booths they probably have to replace once a month, and Ashe shoves his hands in his pockets as the host leads him to the back, where an archway frames a small private room, complete with a plush rug and a _chandelier_ gently swaying overhead. The host sets down a menu and rushes out of the room as though Ashe is contagious, leaving him standing in the archway like a low-rent human sacrifice as the two men from the dating app look up from their drinks.

“Ah,” says Dimitri, as Ashe suppresses a scream threatening to bubble up his throat. “I did think you looked familiar.”

“What the fuck, Dimitri,” says his husband, Felix Hugo Fraldarius, five-time international figure skating champion and the man whose Teen Skating poster was taped up on Ashe’s wall for most of his life. “Don’t be a creep.”

Ashe tries to breathe. Dimitri smiles at him apologetically. Felix narrows his eyes. Ashe has his second championship free skate memorized. His mom taped it on VHS. _VHS._

_Ashe still has the tape._

“Please,” Dimitri says. “Sit down.”

“Sure!” Ashe says, a little too brightly.

_Felix Hugo Fraldarius once landed a triple axel so perfect that the announcer started crying on national television._

He sits down. Dimitri readjusts his napkin. Up close, Felix’s eyes are almost gold.

“Perhaps introductions are in order,” Dimitri says. “Dimitri Blaiddyd. Pleased to meet you.”

“Ashe,” Ashe says. “Ubert.”

“Felix,” says Ashe’s first bisexual awakening.

“Hey,” Ashe squeaks.

He’s pretty sure he isn’t actually screaming out loud. Maybe he is. Maybe Dimitri and Felix—Felix, like, like he can just _call_ him that, like he didn’t wear that black and gold ensemble fifteen years ago and ruin future Ashe’s fucking life—are just being polite while Ashe shrieks faintly like the world’s gayest tea kettle. 

“I’m sure you understand our need for discretion,” Dimitri says, as Ashe lurches for his glass of water. 

“Yeah,” Ashe says, almost sloshing water down his front. “I mean. First guy to land five quads in one skate. Yeah. Totally. Get it.”

There’s a faint silence as Dimitri and Felix exchange bewildered looks.

“You... don’t know Dimitri?” Felix asks.

“Uh, yeah, sort of,” Ashe says. “From the cafe, two days ago. And we’ve been talking online.”

Another silence.

Then it hits him.

Dimitri Blaiddyd. Dimitri _Alexandre_ Blaiddyd, the most notorious power forward in the Blue Lions hockey team’s history, who got into a full-on street fight with a rival team and broke someone’s ribs before someone _else_ whipped out a knife. There’s a _statue_ of him in the quad by the ice rink. People pat his knees for luck. Everyone knows about Dimitri. He’s pretty much a legend.

But mostly, in Ashe’s opinion, he’s a legend because of Felix.

Not that Ashe is obsessed or anything, which he _isn’t,_ but he used to watch Felix Fraldarius’ press conferences when he was a kid, laughing at his blunt answers and sarcastic eye-rolls, and he remembers interviewers bringing Dimitri up a few times. 

_They say you and Dimitri Blaiddyd of the Blue Lions grew up together. Any chance of switching to hockey now that you’ve won the international cup?_

_Dimitri Blaiddyd is an uncultured beast,_ Felix had said, his lip curling in a snarl. _Next fucking question._

Now, Felix’s wedding ring catches the light of the chandelier, and Ashe nods dully.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah. I’ve heard of you. I think.”

“With that Blue Lions documentary out, it’s been hell trying to get online without seeing his face somewhere,” Felix says. “We need time away from... all that. And Dimitri thought we might want to try this.”

Ashe glances at Dimitri, who definitely _looks_ big enough to break a few ribs, but is smiling shyly and wearing a maroon sweater that hugs his chest. “Uh huh.”

“We’re not looking for anything that makes you uncomfortable, of course,” Dimitri says. “We’re just rather well off, all things considered, and I thought, well, it would be nice to. To take care of someone...” He looks down at his glass.

“He likes buying shit for people,” Felix translates.

“And, and what do you like?” Ashe asks. Felix shrugs, and Ashe pushes forward, fueled by a week of eating granola bars and the pure, frenetic energy of being face to face with the subject of his first, absolutely mortifying fantasies. “I mean. I know you guys don’t want me to feel pressured or anything, but I don’t mind if you want to. You know. Date, or something.”

Felix raises his brows. “You’re a fan, then,” he says.

“What? Ha! No, no, not really, I just saw some of your skates,” Ashe says, almost tipping over his glass. 

“Some of _my—_ ”

Dimitri smiles down at his menu, and Felix actually _blushes,_ pink blooming on his cheeks. “Oh,” he says.

“We don’t have to do it if it’s weird, though,” Ashe says.

“Did you see the routine he did to Dorothea’s Sonata?” Dimitri asks, as a waiter finally appears to take their order. Felix goes red.

“Oh, yeah,” Ashe says. “With the flower crown?”

Dimitri beams, and Ashe finally relaxes a little, comforted by the warmth coming off Dimitri in waves. “I knew we’d get along,” he says.

“Shut up and order something,” Felix snaps, and Ashe jumps to attention.

“Oh. Yes, sir.”

“I wasn’t asking y—“ Felix sighs. Dimitri hides a smile behind his menu, and Ashe orders something at random so the waiter can _leave_ already. 

“It seems you know a bit about us,” Dimitri says, “but we know very little of you. You said you’re going to school for business?”

Ashe shrugs. He explains a little of it—How he’s always wanted to run a restaurant of his own, how he’s balancing class and his job at Have Mercie!, how he doesn’t really have time to check on his siblings as much and just hopes they aren’t setting the apartment on fire. But Dimitri is so inviting, so polite, and the details creep up around the edges. By the time they’re ready to go, Ashe is laughing at a story of young Dimitri getting stuck in a tree, and Dimitri and Felix seem to know everything about him.

Everything, of course, aside from the time Ashe got drunk with his friends last semester, jacked off in his room while staring at a picture of Felix in a cloak of flowers, and cried into his pillow because _now all the flowers are probably dead._ He’s gonna keep that one in the vault.

“We should do this again,” Dimitri says, when Ashe stands up, pushing his chair from the table. Ashe’s stomach flips dangerously.

“That’s kind of the point, Dimitri,” Felix drawls. He looks at Ashe. “Would you mind?”

“No!” Ashe says. “Not at all. What were you. When did you—“

“We’re free tomorrow night at eight,” Felix says. “Dimitri’s a commentator on the weekends, and I coach during the day, so. Does that work?”

Ashe quietly reschedules his coursework in his head. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, no problem.”

Felix actually smiles. Ashe might die. “Great,” Felix says. “I’ll email you the address, and we’ll see you there.”

***

Ashe stumbles through work the next day in a haze. He mutely accepts orders. Doesn’t complain when the table full of middle-aged executives tip five percent. Smiles vaguely when the earnest, painfully desperate poet-in-training takes up an entire table to himself during rush and only orders coffee and a scone. By the time his shift is over, he smells like coffee, bread, and healing crystals, and he changes in the staff bathroom from a plastic bag he grabbed from his apartment.

None of it matters. Tonight, if he’s lucky, Ashe might very well get to see Felix Fraldarius’ entire dick.

Not that he hasn’t sort of seen it before. The costumes Felix used to wear didn’t exactly leave much to the imagination, and Past, Uncomfortably Horny Ashe used to think of a considerably sparkly unitard with a fur trim when he was feeling particularly desperate. It was from the short program in the Faerghus Skating Championship, Felix’s third gold in a row. He’d done that one move, the one where he kind of leaned back and spread his thighs a bit and glided across the ice like, _Hello, I’m Felix Fraldarius and my ridiculous, enormous dick is right here, covered in glitter, Jesus fucking Christ._

So maybe Ashe still thinks about that leotard, now and then.

Maybe.

Fuck, he’s going to die. He’s going to go on a triple date with a former hockey player who used to get in fistfights in parking lots and a figure skater who starred in most of Ashe’s more striking wet dreams, and someone’s going to touch him, and he’s going to die. 

_He went the way he wanted to live,_ his sister will say, at his funeral. _Sandwiched between a pair of super athlete sugar-daddy twunks._

“Dick is not going to kill you,” Ashe says, staring at himself in the mirror.

“That’s the spirit, Ashe,” a voice says behind the door. Ashe squawks and drops his eyeliner in the sink as Mercedes knocks gently. “How long will you be in there? Do you need help with your daily affirmation? Fear of intimacy is nothing to be ashamed of—“

“I’m good!” Ashe cries. He scrambles for the eyeliner brush. “Almost out! Everything’s fine!”

“I’m happy for you,” Mercedes says. “But I do need to use the facilities.”

“Uh huh!” Fuck it, he doesn’t need winged eyeliner. He’ll be fine. This is fine. He shoves the makeup in his bag and pushes open the door.

“Hey, Mercie,” he croaks.

“I wish you the best of luck with... what you’re. Doing,” Mercedes manages, and Ashe bobs his head as he makes his hasty escape.

He wastes cash on a taxi ride to the upper west side of the city, where all the buildings actually have fancy doormen with uniforms and disapproving stares. The one at the Blaiddyd-Fraldarius building—which has gargoyles on the roof, what the _hell_ —gives Ashe’s only jacket a look that makes him feel like he’s been carting around a dead weasel on his shoulders, and Ashe is buzzed in to an elevator that doesn’t flicker ominously, wasn’t made two centuries ago, and doesn’t have to be shut by hand. 

The elevator door opens with a sigh, and Ashe stares at the empty entrance to what could be the night he sees Felix’s cock in person.

After a minute of awed silence, the door whirs shut.

“Fuck!” Ashe slams his fist on the door button and lurches out before the elevator can decide to send him back where he came from. He slicks back his hair for the thousandth time and rings the doorbell, which chimes out an actual _song_ before fading into silence.

There’s an ungainly thumping sound, a muttered curse, and the door opens to reveal Dimitri, dressed in yet another soft sweater that hugs his chest. There’s a stylistic cartoon beagle on the front of it, and he’s barefoot on floors that probably cost more to install than it costs Ashe to keep his siblings off the streets. It _sparkles._ Behind Dimitri, there’s a marble table with what looks like a blown-glass wolf figurine rising out of it, and there are actual honest-to-god longswords on the far wall, crossed like they belong in an ancient royal hunting lodge.

“Ashe,” Dimitri says. He smiles, a little uncertainly. “Come in, please.”

“Thanks.” Ashe slides in past Dimitri, who is. Very present, really, there’s just a whole lot of him, and his thighs basically swelling out of his dark jeans really don’t help. Ashe remembers hearing that he threw a man in full hockey protective gear into a glass wall, and risks a glance at his arms. 

“Felix?” Dimitri places a hand on Ashe’s shoulder. “Our, ah. Friend is. Is here.”

“You can say date,” Felix calls, from somewhere deep in the apartment. “You won’t explode. Oh, hey,” he says, emerging from a dark room with his long hair tied up in a bun, fixing Ashe in place with his golden brown eyes.

“Hey,” Ashe manages.

“We had food brought up,” Felix says. His hair looks damp, like he just got out of the shower, and he’s wearing a tight-fitting turtleneck that should probably be illegal. “Neither of us are very good at cooking.”

“I can cook,” Ashe says, nonsensically. Felix raises a brow. “I mean, my parents owned a restaurant, yeah, so I’ve always. Wanted to do that.”

“That’s right, you mentioned that before,” Dimitri says, with a comforting smile. “Perhaps you could prepare something for us, sometime.”

“It probably won’t compare to whatever we’re having tonight, but sure.” Ashe shrugs, and Dimitri actually _blushes,_ pink crawling up his neck. “Thanks for dinner. I was on the mid shift at work today, so I’ve had, like, a scone. And coffee.”

“Yeah, that sounds healthy,” Felix drawls. 

“Says the man who nearly fainted after his free skate because he ate,” Dimitri says, archly, “and I quote, _a sandwich on the train._ A subway sandwich. Really.”

“It was sixteen years ago, and I was broke,” Felix says. His lips curve in a knifelike smile. “Most figure skaters are. We have to pay most of our own expenses.”

“Doesn’t help that you spent most of your spare cash on swords,” Dimitri says.

Felix’s eyes flash dangerously. “Excuse me, Mister I Bought This Horse Because She Looked Sad And I Was Weak.”

“Look, I’m sorry about the horse. It was a lapse of control.”

Ashe sits at the counter and watches with mild amusement as Felix and Dimitri bicker their way through setting up the takeout into something that looks like an actual meal. They move around each other fluidly, so at ease with the other’s presence that they don’t bump elbows or stamp on anyone’s foot, even if the kitchen is kind of cramped. He learns that Dimitri ducks his head when he laughs, and Felix doesn’t always smile when he’s pleased. He sort of glances up and away, like being happy with something is a secret only he is allowed to keep, and Dimitri’s eyes go all soft every time he sees it.

Dinner is probably amazing. Ashe doesn’t remember much of it, though. He does remember Dimitri licking sauce off his fingers, and the way Felix’s throat works when he swallows, and is painfully aware that he still kind of smells like bread from the cafe. But when he gets up to help clear the dishes, Dimitri beams at him, and he ends up standing right next to him at the sink, at eye-level with Dimitri’s pecs.

“You’re the guest, you know,” Dimitri says, and Ashe shrugs. “Well, thank you, regardless.” He leans down to kiss Ashe’s temple, a gesture so fluid and practiced that Ashe can be sure he does it to Felix without thinking, and draws back with an embarrassed blush that burns to his ears.

“Oh,” he says. “I. Ah. I apologize, I wasn’t—“

“Missed me,” Ashe says. He leans on the sink in an attempt to be suave. There’s soap on his hands. His shirt smells like old cinnamon rolls and an ancient taxi. But Dimitri, Dimitri just kisses him anyway, bends down and presses his lips to Ashe’s with a hunger that has Ashe standing on his toes, running his fingers over Dimitri’s sweater.

“Huh,” Felix says, from the living room.

Dimitri doesn’t mess around with kittenish pecks or chaste kisses. He goes deep and hard and fervent, like he’s some tragic romantic interest in a period piece, standing in a misty field somewhere with a cravat on. He presses Ashe against the counter, and Ashe trails his hands down the front of his sweater, lifting the hem just an inch. Dimitri is powerfully built, but his stomach is softer than Ashe expects. He’s still built like a fucking triangle, and Ashe is definitely going to have the imprint of the counter on his back for hours, but it’s nice, almost, to know he’s softened a little since his hockey days. 

Ashe is panting when Dimitri finally lets him come up for air, and Felix’s voice is a low, amused drawl from the couch.

“I was going to put on a movie,” he says, “but if you two wanted alone time...”

“No,” Ashe says, spurred on by the heat of Dimitri’s hand on his lower back and the memory of a dick barely contained in glittery latex. “No, you can... you can share.”

Felix’s brows practically rise to his hairline. Dimitri’s fingers flex, and he pulls Ashe in closer, half lifting him off his toes. Ashe’s hands, which are still under Dimitri’s sweater, shift up involuntarily, exposing Dimitri’s stomach. 

“I mean,” Ashe says, as Dimitri looks down at him with the kind of hunger that leaves him breathless and wanting, nails scraping across his pecs. “If you want.”

***

The thing about having a threesome with the subject of your bisexual awakening and his frankly enormous husband is that no one ever really knows what to do with their hands all the time. Which means when Ashe, more desperate for dick than the first time he went to a gay bar and tried to climb a leather daddy by the harness, gets to his knees on the kitchen floor and squeezes Dimitri’s thighs, Felix just leans on the counter and watches.

“Tell me I wasn’t that eager,” Felix says, as Ashe takes a moment to press his face against Dimitri’s leg. Dimitri runs his hands through Ashe’s hair, ruining it, and Ashe reaches for the button of his jeans.

“I believe you were,” Dimitri says. “You blocked the door with a chair after my interview and ripped a hole in your costume. You know. The one with the feathers.”

“Oh my god,” Ashe says. “You fucked in the World Cup costume? Really?”

“I probably still have it in a box somewhere,” Felix says. Ashe whines. Just a little. 

Dimitri’s fingers clench in Ashe’s hair. “Don’t be cruel.”

“Cruel is fine,” Ashe says, and when they both turn to stare, he decides the best thing to do would be to _shut up_ before he loses the chance at dick altogether, and pops the rest of Dimitri’s buttons free. He tugs down the jeans partway—Dimitri _is so thick in the thighs, holy hell_ —and licks over the fabric of Dimitri’s briefs, tracing the line of his cock.

Dimitri makes a soft, strangled sound and grips the counter with his free hand.

“He’s big, yeah?” Felix says, and Ashe hums a little, making Dimitri hiss in a sharp breath. “He likes it if you tease him, don’t let him come. Keep him on edge.”

“Felix,” Dimitri says. His voice comes out strained as Ashe pulls down his briefs. His cock is already half hard, and he jerks slightly when Ashe leans in to press his lips to the underside. “Don’t.”

There’s dick all over Ashe’s face. Felix Fraldarius is watching Ashe nuzzle his husband’s dick like a starving man lost in the desert, and it’s the best fucking day of his goddamn life. Ashe runs his tongue along Dimitri’s length, looks up at him, sees a single blue eye with the pupil blown wide, a flushed face, bared teeth.

He goes for it.

“Fuck my face, daddy,” Ashe says, and it’s a testament to how far gone he is that when Felix disappears behind the counter with a snort and a choking sound, Ashe doesn’t even care, because Dimitri has his hand on the back of his neck and Ashe is going for it like he’s the runner up on the cocksucking championships of the universe and he has nothing left to lose.

He doesn’t get all of Dimitri in at once, but not for lack of trying. He tries to relax his throat, tries to remember to be patient, that he isn’t here to choke on dick, but Dimitri is making soft little gasps above him and Ashe pushes himself that much farther until there are tears in his eyes and saliva pooling under his tongue. Dimitri’s hips move, just a little, and Ashe _moans._

“Felix,” Dimitri gasps. “Get off the floor.”

Ashe doesn’t hear what Felix says, though, because then Dimitri really _is_ moving, and Ashe hangs on to his enormous thighs and gags and hollows his cheeks and tries to do anything but come untouched just from the weight of a cock sliding over his tongue and bumping the back of his throat. It’s amazing. It’s transcendent. Ashe thinks maybe he should ask Mercedes to like, bottle up _this_ energy into one of her crystals, because he’s had her healing aura wind chime at his window for months and it’s _never_ done _this_.

Then there’s heat at his back, and Felix weaves his fingers over Dimitri’s on Ashe’s head and _moves him_ , like Ashe is just a doll between them, like Felix is just using Ashe to get Dimitri off, and Ashe presses the heel of his hand to his dick and squeezes his eyes closed before he realizes he’s rocking on his knees. 

“Look at him,” Felix says. “I think you’re breaking him.”

“Am—am I?” Dimitri almost sounds concerned. He slows, draws back, and Ashe gasps in great ugly breaths of air as he finally opens his eyes to see Dimitri’s brows knit tight and his flushed face pinched with worry.

“Oh my god,” Ashe pants. “Why are you stopping.” 

“Because we really should take this to bed,” Felix says, and honestly, Ashe could _cry._

Maybe he has.

They don’t make it to bed. They almost do—Felix finally remembers that condoms are a thing that exist and Dimitri gets Ashe pushed up against the wall with his pants kicked off and honestly way too much lube, but he keeps pressing down on Ashe’s prostate with his fingers and going, “How does this feel?” which makes Ashe white out a little and probably make a sound like a dying seal.

Felix slides between Ashe and the wall at last, and he’s gloriously naked, all lean muscle, and Ashe kisses him frantically as Dimitri _lifts Ashe’s thighs with both hands_ and holds him up against Felix’s body. Ashe slams a fist on the wall, and Felix laughs.

“Call him daddy again,” he says, and wraps slim fingers around Ashe’s cock. 

“Daddy,” Ashe says. It comes out a little too high. “Fuck me, daddy, please, what the fuck, how are you both real—“

“I like him,” Felix says, over Ashe’s shoulder, as Dimitri lines himself up and presses Ashe against Felix. Ashe clings to him, his cock sliding across Felix’s abs, and Felix chuckles softly and trails his hands up between them to brush over Ashe’s nipples. Ashe moans.

Every time Dimitri thrusts into him, Ashe is pushed up against Felix. He’s helpless to control it—All he can do is hang on to Felix’s shoulders and press his face against the wall, panting hard like every thrust punches the air right out of him. Felix smiles at that, rakes his nails down Ashe’s skin and makes him shudder and cry out and curse low in his throat, while Dimitri holds him up on his cock like Ashe weighs nothing at all. Ashe would be bouncing in the fucking air if it weren’t for Felix, and the thought of that has him closing his eyes and grinding his teeth and crying out as he comes all over Felix’s stomach.

“Holy shit,” Ashe says. Dimitri slams into him harder, now, pushing the both of them together, and Ashe can feel Felix’s cock on his thigh as he’s shoved forward against the wall. Felix curses, and Ashe gropes for him, digs his hand in his hair.

“Please,” he says, even though he doesn’t know what he’s begging for, anymore. “Please, fuck.”

He’s dimly aware, through the force of Dimitri fucking him into Felix like Felix is just a convenient post for Ashe to cling to, that Felix’s hand is moving between them, and his eyelids lower slightly, his lips part. Ashe tries to kiss him through it, sloppy and desperate, and swallows Felix’s moan as he comes. Dimitri’s hips stutter, slam into him twice more, and then Ashe is left panting between them, sweaty and naked and fucked within an inch of his life.

“So,” he says, in the heavy silence. “Daddy works for you, huh?”

Felix groans, grabs Ashe in his clammy arms, and kisses him breathless.

They _do_ watch the movie, though, and when Ashe limps downstairs, forgets his shitty jacket, and takes the bus back to his crappy apartment, he opens his billing app to find a transfer of six thousand dollars and a smiley face emoji from Dimitri.

 _Get yourself something nice,_ the message says.

“Done,” Ashe mumbles, and collapses face-first on his nest of blankets with a sigh.

**Author's Note:**

> A fill I wrote for the kinkmeme! (It is a little different on there, but I personally prefer this ending, because it wraps things up neatly. I’ll post the epilogue once I revise it a bit, though)


End file.
